


Did You Eat a Corona Pollentia for Breakfast?

by Lyricaris



Category: Heathers (1988), Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:14:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26414740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyricaris/pseuds/Lyricaris
Summary: “They’re people I work with, and our job is being popular...and parahuman.”Welcome to Earth Hea circa 2011, where Sherwood, Ohio is the new Brockton Bay. The powers might be familiar, but most of the players are new.
Relationships: Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 9
Kudos: 15





	1. ARC I-1 | Corn Nuts

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for all topics concerning Worm and Heathers (1988), including suicide, murder, and eating disorders.

“Morning, Heather.”

Heather winced at the loud greeting as she rose out of her slumber. Or was it a greeting? She recognized the voice, but half the time Veronica addressed her it was in unaffected half-questions, as if she were too afraid to tack a period onto her statements.

Heather squinted a little as the world slowly came into focus around her. The back of her head was aching. Her mouth was also bone-dry and tasted like absolute shit, but that was to be expected. She could feel her scrunchie listing off to the side of her head, still clinging loosely to her hair. She hadn’t bothered to take it off before passing out last night. Heather's familiar surroundings were comfortable, though; she was nestled on a veritable mountain of silk pillows, and wrapped in her favorite bathrobe. Hangovers were manageable, in a bed like this. Everything was manageable, for Heather Chandler, but some things were _unexpected._

Among them was the sight of Veronica standing at the foot of her bed, along with that dickhead loser she’d been making eyes at for the past week. Jason D-something? Disgusting. Heather blinked, recalling the events of the previous night, and smoothed her face into a mild, placid lake of poison as she sat up.

“Veronica. And Jessie James. Quelle surprise.” It wasn’t like the only non-Heather to visit her this early in the morning, and in her own home besides. She wasn’t alarmed, but she _was_ repulsed. Was the little Girl Scout Cookie trying to make amends to her reputation already? Too little, too late. “Hear about Veronica’s affection for regurgitation?”

She eyed Jason, tracking his glance at her lackey. Veronica met his eyes briefly and looked away. Her hair wasn’t done, and between the unbrushed waves and the gnarly cardigan—or was it a vest?—that was more gray than blue, Heather wondered why she had ever associated with this girl.

“Heather, I think last night we both said a lot of stuff we didn’t mean.”

“Did we?” Heather’s statement was a question framed as a statement, because unlike Veronica, she didn’t do timid in any aspect of her life. The flimsy smile on the pathetic girl’s face wasn’t even apologetic. Heather felt almost comforted by the havoc she was going to wreak on Veronica’s life come Monday. She would restore a little balance to this world where vermin like JD thought he could just waltz into her room. “How the hell d’you get in here?”

“Veronica knew you’d have a hangover, so uh,” Jason shrugged and held out a white mug, the lid clinking as he offered it to her. “I whipped this up for you. It’s a family recipe.”

God, his voice was so reedy he even _sounded_ like a rat. And Veronica let this one stick his tongue down her throat? The thought really wasn’t quelling Heather's post-revelry nausea. She glared at him, put on her best sneer. Heather prided herself more on her looks than her brains, it was true, but she wasn’t a complete idiot.

“What did you do, put a phlegm globber in it or something? I’m not going to drink that piss.”

“Knew the stuff would be too intense for her,” JD smiled, exchanging another glance with Veronica as the cup came back down.

“Intense.” Heather shook her head slightly, pulling the scrunchie out of her tangled curls. “ _Grow up._ Think I’ll drink it just because you call me chicken? _”_

They were both smiling now, so pleased with themselves they were radiating smugness. Heather didn’t trust either of them, but neither was she going to be made a fool in front of these two.

She stood, a little off balance still. “Just give me the cup, jerk.”

Jason complied. Without so much as a glance into the mug, Heather grabbed it and chugged. Too much hesitation was another sign of fear, and she wasn’t afraid of a little spit.

The taste was astoundingly atrocious. Sharp and bitter, like cleaning fluid, but much more viscous than bleach. It was sticking to her mouth, even though she’d already swallowed. Heather gagged, working her lips and throat, but nothing was coming back up. God, it was vile—and now her entire chest was searing. She staggered forward, hands flying to her neck, panic gripping her like a vise.

“Corn nuts!”

She was losing her balance. Heather swayed forward, trying to reach for something—anything—but she was tipping towards the ground before her legs would move. The glass coffee table was rising up to greet her, and even though she twisted in the air to avoid it she tumbled through anyways. Heather's vision faltered. She could feel shards cutting into her face and neck as a resounding crash tore at her ears, her senses relaying the information out of sync.

There was a stagnant pause. Heather was on the floor, gasping as her esophagus glued itself to her left lung. The burning, sharp chemical taste was everywhere, filling her nose and mouth. The oxygen was disappearing from the room, and her whole torso was _burning_ , an inescapable searing that spread from her throat all the way out to the tips of her ribcage.

The two students still standing were frozen, barely managing to crane their necks as they stared at her pink-clad body. Neither dared to approach.

“Oh my god. I can’t believe it. I just killed my best friend.”

Veronica’s voice was a tenuous strain of despair, the slightest sliver of a sob floating through. Heather was floating too, now, at one with the unbearable pain and yet apart from it. Her world was a black, spinning spot, and she was being pulled in, suffocated. In the briefest of respites, her brain seemed to spasm, and she was aware for a fleeting second of the rest of her body before the darkness smothered her again.

“And your worst enemy.”

 _That vicious loser fuck._ Heather’s emotional response to his voice wasn’t matched with a name. Was that the boy Veronica had brought in? Heather couldn’t remember why he was here. Actually, she wasn’t entirely sure where _here_ was. She felt like writhing in response to the pain, and tried to twist herself off the floor, but she couldn’t move.

“Same difference!”

The blistering absence in her lungs was dulling everything else. Heather was no longer herself. The voices were coming to her as if she was underwater, detached, a sinking stone of pain and desperation. She couldn’t understand. She couldn’t….

The last thought that Heather Chandler had before the darkness closed in was that her best friend had murdered her.

\---

“Oh Jesus…”

“What are we going to tell the cops? Fuck it if she can’t take a joke, Sarge?”

Veronica could barely hear him; her heart was racing, and she couldn’t stand the image of the body in her periphery.

“I…I can’t believe this is my life…” She exhaled, face crumpling. She was a _murderer._ Alright, manslaughter at best, but this did not look good. “Oh my god. I’m going to have to send my SAT scores to San Quentin instead of Stanford.”

“Alright, just a little freaked here.” JD was panting too, the both of them draped around Heather’s pink dresser like they’d just come off of running a mile. “At—at least you got what you wanted, you know?”

The words smacked Veronica across the face. She let her hand slide off her eyes, turned to him with a burning glare. This wasn’t fucking funny, and more to the point, it was _his_ fault. “Got what I _wanted?_ It is one thing to want someone out of your life, and another thing to serve them a wakeup cup full of liquid drainer!”

JD got up and started pacing, still giving Heather a wide berth. Glass crunched under his feet. He was glancing around the room, his eyes catching on the shards, a stack of magazines that had fallen on the floor, and the other paraphernalia the most popular girl in school had collected in her once-spotless room.

That was when Heather twitched. An arm flailed out, the wrist snapping loosely before plummeting to the ground. Heather’s entire body writhed and spasmed, and then she let out a horrible cough.

“Fuck! Oh my god, she’s still alive!”

Veronica was on her feet before she knew what was happening, scrambling across the plush red carpet and kneeling at Heather’s side. Her friend's lips were blue, a mixture of Draino and the inability to breathe, but Heather was putting up a valiant effort at the latter.

“Call an ambulance!”

“But we—Veronica, we can’t—”

“Call an ambulance _now, goddamnit!”_

JD dashed out of the room, phone in hand. Whether he was complying or not, Veronica didn’t care. She felt electrified, thick dread coursing through her as she fought to think calmly. Her entire body was trembling and her teeth were clacking together. She wasn’t a killer. Heather was a demon from the pits of hell, but she didn’t deserve to actually die. As desperation set in, Veronica realized that she would do whatever she needed to, to save her best friend. It was the principle of the thing, more than the person that was doing the dying. Heather just—Heather just needed to _heal—_

_She saw something vast._

_It transcended anything Veronica had ever witnessed before. It was a moving, living thing, expansive enough to swallow the Earth. It mirrored itself, like the shatters of the coffee table on the floor, except each of these shards were much more real and concrete. These pieces flickered in and out of other things, organisms, living beings. But this being was alive, too; extensions and pieces of itself seeded in other flickers of life and still existed there, moving with purpose, linking it across the planet._

_But then she was aware of the outermost pieces breaking off. They were in her periphery, barely perceivable, and then all at once, as if she had zoomed out into a vacuum, they were flying off in all directions. The being adjusted itself as the echoes carried themselves outward. One fragment cascaded across her vision, deleting her surroundings for a moment. She saw only the piece as it fell, suffocating her like an unknowable, infinite well, and then it swallowed her whole—_

Someone made a throaty, watery gurgling sound.

Veronica blinked, shaking her head. She had just hallucinated something strange—or perhaps it was just the panic? She tried to remember, but the thought was slippery and unknowable, disintegrating as she tried to recall it. All that was coming back, in full force, was despair tinged with the bright tang of adrenaline. 

It didn't matter, because Heather was expiring right in front of her. She reached for the other girl, pulling her hair out of her face and wondering if she should start CPR. Heather's eyes were still shut, but she was gagging and gasping. A free hand reached out and grabbed at the air, more an involuntary jerk than recognition. Veronica clasped it anyway, wanting to offer some fraction of comfort, and then something strange happened.

She could feel the veins beneath her hand as clearly as if she had mapped out the circulatory system in a textbook. Veronica could trace the heartbeat, the places where the bone grew and formed and connected, how the skin was wrapped over it all. She closed her eyes and could detect the shape of Heather’s lungs, her esophagus, the churning of chemicals in Heather’s stomach. The places in the throat that had burned away, the spots in the trachea where the Draino had leaked down.

Veronica knew what she needed to do. A thin blue calm, as transparent as plastic wrap and just as fragile, descended over her. She concentrated as Heather jerked and retched on the floor, barely conscious, and began to fix it.

She placed her hands on Heather’s neck, feeling the muscles convulsing there. Veronica cleared the windpipe of the blue fluid, and then continued. The chemical interactions ceased as she worked. Veronica activated Heather’s gag reflex properly after she had been allowed to take a shaking breath, and moved the girl onto her side. Heather vomited, a puddle of mostly blue and stomach acids coming out onto the carpet. She was still trembling, pale and sweaty, not anywhere near still. Veronica kept going, after double checking that the lungs and esophagus were okay. Heather was pretty dehydrated, and her liver had been hard at work throughout the night. She could feel Heather's panic, too, the adrenaline pumping though Heather’s veins and the bright spots in her brain where she was feeling fear and disgust and a clawing agony.

Veronica calmed it all, working through Heather’s physiology like a checklist, scrubbing out anything that seemed out of place. She wouldn’t have known, couldn’t have explained exactly what she was doing with the—atoms? Molecules? No, these were liver enzymes—that she was refining, but she knew with an utmost certainty that it was what Heather needed.

When the other girl quieted, all the Draino having cleared out of her system, Veronica sat back on her knees and stared.

When several seconds later she finally remembered to blink, she felt as if someone had crammed something into her head. Knowledge, but not exactly; more of a precise, living instruction manual than any kind of map. She couldn’t even explain with words what she had just done.

Heather was breathing deeply, her face still contorted, but having lost its hard edge of pain. She coughed a couple more times before flopping onto her back.

And then her eyes flew open, swiveling to stare at the girl kneeling beside her.

Veronica didn’t get a chance to move before Heather’s hand, the one she was still clutching in her own, clenched down on her fingers. They squeezed hard enough that Veronica felt the bones cracking. She screamed, snatching her hand away and gaping at Heather, as her friend sat up and grinned. The usually blinding smile was a light, sticky blue.

“You _bitch._ Have a taste of your own hangover cure!”

Suddenly Heather had grabbed her shoulders and was dragging her up, much faster and higher than should have been possible. Her grip was impossibly strong, and Veronica screamed again as she felt herself rising slightly in the air before being hauled bodily across the room. In the next second, her back slammed into the wall beside the bed. Her shoulders were pinned back, her legs dangling beneath her as she struggled to free herself. Heather was laughing, her pretty face contorted into something horrible, malicious and half-mad.

“Heather—”

“You tried to fucking _kill me!”_

Heather was still pinning her to the wall, but she wasn’t standing herself. She was hovering, actually floating in midair. Her body was at an angle, tilted horizontally towards Veronica, tensed and ready to strike. Kicking at the plaster behind her, Veronica felt herself slipping downwards, and was almost grateful that Heather hadn’t decided to grab her by the neck.

Heather seemed to realize what she was doing at the exact same moment. Panting, she looked down at her body and, seeing that none of it was supported by a solid surface, gave a little yelp and dropped back to earth.

Both of them crashed into a heap on the carpet. Veronica groaned and rubbed at her shoulders with her right hand, only to pull back with a hiss at the bright flash of pain. Right. The popular terror had broken her fucking fingers.

“What—” Heather blinked, trying to center herself. Pale eyes darted across Veronica’s face. “What just happened?”

“You’re asking me?”

Heather extended one hand and made a fist in front of her face. The knuckles cracked sharply, and when she looked back up there was a fraction of wonder in her expression. “I feel weird.”

Veronica was a little ahead of her, on that count. It shouldn’t be very possible, and Veronica hadn't ever imagined _she_ would ever be in this position, but there was no doubting her own eyes. Those people on the news, those crazy abilities—capes got their powers naturally, right? She’d now been given a gift, and it had healed Heather. But the girl in question hadn’t come out the other side unchanged, either.

Out of one mess and into another. That cold, clear calm descended again, but this time it was one with rage behind it. Without a warning, Veronica jabbed forward with her intact hand and placed her fingers on Heather’s wrist.

Her friend went rigid, paralyzed. A moment later, Heather's eyes fluttered shut and her head lolled forward as she slipped back into unconsciousness.

Well, glad to know _that_ still worked, but it was a stop gap measure at best. The slick, ice cold panic was coming back again, welling in Veronica's chest and tightening her throat as her eyes threatened to spill over with moisture. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She shouldn’t have assumed that saving Heather’s life would amount to anything. A mythic bitch stayed a mythic bitch, there was nothing that Veronica could do to change that. And it didn’t solve the problem of the crime she had committed.

Unless…no, perhaps there was another way. Veronica could see the solution in front of her, crystallizing so closely she could almost touch it. Reaching forward, she gingerly cupped her fingers around Heather’s temple and concentrated.

She reached through the hippocampus, and the amygdala, searched through the cerebral cortex as well—she wasn’t sure, couldn’t be, of the names, but the intent and the solution were one and the same. Veronica tweaked and adjusted, working through all of the tiny connections developing in and out of Heather's short-term memory from the last twenty minutes. And then she erased them. 

\--

JD walked back into the room, fingers slick and trembling around his phone. He had been halfway through a dial after several minutes of stalling when he’d heard an enormous crash.

Veronica was sitting on the floor with her hands in her lap, perfectly still. Her head was hanging. The wall above her had a circular dent in it the size of a torso, with cracks radiating outward. Heather was at her feet, lying on the ground peacefully. Her brow was uncreased, and color was already returning to her porcelain features. Her chest was rising and falling at a steady beat.

“Veronica?”


	2. ARC I-2 | Shocking

“I’m sure she’s okay. She’s a tough girl.”

Carol Chandler nodded, barely hearing the words Sarah was shouting over the heavy wind buffeting them. They were in the air, Lady Photon flying at the top speed she could sustain, given the extra weight. The sisters had their arms draped around each other, and to improve Sarah’s grip Carol was standing on one of her small forcefields, which was doing the brunt of the lifting. Given the situation, though, Carol wouldn’t have minded if she needed to be carried all the way to the hospital. All she needed was to _be_ there, right now.

She had gotten the news just minutes ago. An ambulance had been called to the house, and Heather had been transported to the ER. Carol was cursing herself for having left her daughter alone at home. Not that Heather would come to New Wave’s Saturday morning meetings; as the only non-powered member of the family, Carol could understand why her daughter was a little resentful of the team. Carol had sympathized for as long as she could, but lately the behavior had gotten ridiculous.

Carol had always been transparent with her daughter about both her careers, and so had Mark, when he was mentally present enough to engage in that conversation. But after their move to Sherwood, where they nearly matched the size of the local Protectorate, they had been tasked with more crime-fighting and parahuman containment than ever before. New Wave had been busy, but Carol had welcomed the change—it served the same purpose as devoting herself to law, allowed her not to think when she was buried in a demanding task.

Heather had not taken to the change half as well. Her resentment had twisted into something Carol had never expected of her daughter. It had been getting worse for a while—the sullen silences, the behavior at school she was too afraid to pry into, the acting out. Carol hadn’t wanted to press the matter or stick her nose in Heather's business unnecessarily, had wanted to give the teenager a measure of autonomy. It was a fine line. Too many questions and Heather was bound to stonewall the concern, but not enough and Carol felt that she was neglecting her own child. It had been the one promise that Carol made to herself, when Sarah had suggested the family team. She would have enough time for everything—and everyone. Or the hero gig would be the first to go.

She had been ready to step down, encouraged Neil to as well, given that he needed to focus on taking care of himself. On her part, it had been more as a placation to her daughter, the hope that she could soothe the widening chasms in her own home.

And then Eric had triggered during a targeted attack of the Pelham’s house, when his parents had been on a mission. Sarah had nearly panicked, and Carol hadn’t even been able to bring up the subject of leaving. How could she make her sister and Neil pick up all the slack, leave only two adults on the team? The addition of Shielder gave New Wave a little more flexibility and balanced out their firepower, it was true, but it also meant more training and a fourteen-year-old tagging along into brutal fights. Carol had been hesitant when Sarah let her youngest son join them, but at the end of the day they couldn’t force him to stay home. It had already posed dangers in the past, not to mention the strife it might cause if Eric decided to join the Wards in response.

Heather had not taken it well. It had left her entirely as the odd one out, and Carol had pinpointed it as the moment when she had started struggling in earnest. Heather had taken her parents' absence as an excuse to go out at all hours of the night and had stopped listening to them entirely. Not that she was open to much conversation to begin with. Even taking time away from New Wave had only worsened the situation—Heather had gotten bolder in defying any sort of rules they set down, and nights of screaming had commenced when she didn’t get to do as she pleased.

Heather had come home in the early hours this morning, making an ungodly amount of noise before getting into bed. Carol hadn’t bothered to confront her. She had laid in bed at 3AM staring at the ceiling and wincing at the banging across the hallway instead, too tired to get into another confrontation especially when Heather wouldn’t remember it in the morning. She hadn’t bothered to wake her daughter before heading over to her sister’s, either. Heather had an open invitation, had always been offered a chance to join in the debriefings, but after a while bringing it up had become more insulting than welcoming. In truth, even Sarah had started to become irritated with her niece’s skulking presence, and although it went unsaid none of New Wave had missed Heather.

And now, not even an hour into their meeting, her daughter was at the hospital.

Carol was jerked out of her thoughts by their swift descent. Sarah was coming in for a landing, and the forcefield beneath her feet skidded against asphalt and then winked out as they dropped down into the parking lot. Carol charged forward past the sliding automatic doors to the front desk, barely bothering to greet the receptionist before demanding the room number. Seconds later, she was at Heather’s bedside.

Her daughter was unconscious, lying on white sheets that made her smaller than she was. Her breathing was even, features smooth in a way Carol had not observed for a long time. Heather looked younger, peaceful even. Taking a seat heavily, Carol exhaled slowly as she took her daughter’s hand and settled next to the bed.

“The doctor’s on her way.” Sarah’s voice came from behind her, around the doorframe. “But the nurse says Heather's stable for now. I’ll leave you two alone.”

As the latch clicked shut, Carol leaned forward, hands wrapped tightly around Heather’s cold fingers, and forcefully blinked back the moisture in her eyes.

\---

Veronica had been so, so stupid.

Her head was still spinning a little, now that the shock had faded into pure frustration. She was cradling her hand, which was throbbing numbly, the pointer and ring fingers wrapped in a splint of blue foam and metal. Veronica wasn’t even entirely sure how the sequence of events had led her here, sitting on a cold metal bench in a hallway reeking of antiseptic. It was all a blur, after JD had finally called the ambulance. She was leaning on his chest now, the arm he had wrapped around her providing the only source of warmth.

“I still can’t believe it, babe,” he was chuckling, as he nuzzled the top of her head. “That was kind of badass. Are you…are you sure it worked?”

She had told him, albeit haltingly, what had transpired in Heather’s bedroom. There was no other choice, no one else she could trust. Besides, he had seen the destruction with his own eyes. Veronica couldn’t even quite remember what she had said, only that JD had caught on rather quickly. Then again, he should know what he was in for, moving into this city. Sherwood had seen a small explosion in the cape population the past five years, enough that they were on the news regularly now.

Veronica was well informed, not because she was particularly interested in the parahuman buzz, but because it was all Heather had ranted about for the better part of last year. Veronica had gotten more than an earful of what New Wave was up to, and by now was thoroughly uninterested in cape activities. What had she cared, when any opinion she bothered to form that wasn’t acrid disdain got shot down almost immediately? 

In her opinion, half the reason everyone loved Heather so much—besides the flawless face and hair—was her connection to the local hero group. They were a little more popular than even the Protectorate even at school. Public identities tended to come with a little fame as a side dish to the main course of supposed accountability. Heather didn’t buy into it at all, which was another thing Veronica was quietly pissy about most of the time. She would have loved to meet the team, seen some of the powers up close, but she had learned early on that bringing up Heather’s family was a recipe for disaster.

And speaking of disasters, Veronica had enthusiastically galloped head first into one. She had been angry, viciously so, after last night. Veronica had more or less sold her soul for a little popularity, had known she was doing so, but it didn’t give Heather the right to initiate her like some kind of desperate frat bro. What behavior had been expected at the party anyways? It wasn’t even _fun,_ and Heather was sucking up to the college boys as much as the rest of the school sucked up to her. The cycle never ended. It was insidious, a reel of trying to please people that didn’t give a shit about you, knowing deep down that you would never gain their approval.

Veronica groaned, buried her face in JD’s leather jacket. “God, this was a terrible idea.”

“I think it turned out okay,” he laughed back.

He smelled faintly like cigarettes and cold air, and there was no tension in his shoulders. Veronica wished she knew if the attitude was real or not.

“What am I going to say to her parents?”

“Do you have to say anything? I think you’ve made a pretty pristine mess of her place, I’m sure she’ll enjoy explaining that away. She won’t remember, right?”

“They’re not idiots, JD, they’ll figure it out.”

“Oh, c’mon.” He lowered his voice, lips quirking as hazel eyes danced with mischief and barely concealed malice. “They’ll just assume that she has powers?”

“Considering it kind of runs in the family, fuck yeah!”

JD made a face. “What?”

It was Veronica’s turn to blink, mirror his look of confusion as she pushed herself off of him and straightened her back.

“Oh, shit—you don’t know. Heather _Chandler,_ how have you not heard of her family?”

“What, are they big shots or something? I’ve barely been here a week, Veronica.”

“New Wave, the hero team? The Chandlers and the Pelhams, their identities have been public for years.”

“Huh. Thought the name might’ve sounded familiar, but I didn’t make the connection. I dunno, they’re kind of a new concept, aren’t they? Are you saying Heather’s had powers for a while? One of the daughters—Laserbeam or something?”

“Laserdream. And no, that’s her cousin, Crystal. She graduated from Westerberg last year. But New Wave is why Heather is such a vile shit half the time, she’s the only one who _can’t_ turn into a ball of light or fly or something.”

JD actually laughed, dimwit boy that he was, and Veronica fought the urge to slap him. He wasn’t half as cute when he was being this stupid.

“So...I guess Heather got a little of what she wanted too.”

“You’re not funny.”

Veronica turned away from him, hunched forward to bury her face in her knees. It had only been a matter of time before this happened, and she had been angry and brainless enough to actually prompt the powers. It was only supposed to be milk and orange juice, enough to piss Heather off maybe, not make her into a goddamn _cape._ The thought of a raging Heather with the kind of strength she had exhibited earlier—not to mention the flight—was making Veronica's stomach turn. She hadn’t solved anything.

“Maybe you should go,” she finally mumbled.

JD scoffed. “Hey, it was just a joke! We’ll figure this out—”

“No, seriously, I don’t want you here. Mrs. Chandler’s going to want a word with me, and if I want her to believe my story I’ll have to pour it on thick. She doesn’t know you, but she trusts me.”

“Fine, whatever.”

“Oh, don’t be a dick about it,” Veronica sneered back, feeling a little venomous, “this is _your_ fault.”

“My fault? Who grabbed the mug, again? It wasn’t me who wanted to kill a Heather!”

“ _Shh!”_ With a burning glare, Veronica checked the hallway—still empty, thank God—and gave him a little shove. “Just get out of here. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Don’t bother.”

JD picked himself off the bench and slouched off without another word. Veronica felt like punching something, not that her bandaged fingers would appreciate that kind of venting. She was seriously considering following him out—if not to make up, then at least to get away from this stupid hospital—before a tall blonde figure appeared at the end of the hallway Jason had just disappeared down.

She was dressed in crisp business casual despite the fact that it was barely past noon on a Saturday, a nice blouse tucked into comfortable looking khakis. Her short hair was a little ruffled, like she’d blow dried it. Even with the minimal makeup she was wearing, she was an attractive woman. A little tired, maybe, with Heather’s smooth skin and platinum hair yet without noticeable streaks of grey. Out of the suit, the effect was less jarring, but it wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to imagine the blinding yellow weapons she could conjure at a moment’s notice. Veronica had seen enough of the pictures online, even if she had only met the woman in a civilian identity. 

Carol Chandler—otherwise known as the superheroine Brandish—was walking toward her at a fast clip, her face drawn. Veronica pasted on her best smile, swallowed the knot in her throat, and prepared to lie her heart out.


	3. ARC I-3 | Real Life

“She choked…on water?”

Veronica’s smile was slippery, sliding off of her face. “I’m not sure, exactly…how it happened. One moment she was fine...”

Mrs. Chandler’s expression was unreadable, but there was both a touch of distrust and a flicker of disdain. Veronica felt her gut clench, a slickness spread across her palms. Under that cold stare, the rest of her sentence petered out.

“You called the ambulance?

Veronica just nodded. She had been too afraid, too unsure to trust in her own…work? Powers? Not something to dwell on at the moment. All she'd known was that someone with actual medical training should get a look at Heather.

After a moment, she offered, “I, um, haven’t been in to visit her yet. The doctor spoke to me, but I didn’t want to disturb her.”

Actually, Veronica had wanted to be at least a mile away before Heather woke up, but ultimately running from the situation had been too shameful. She was already walking a fragile rope of guilt and uncertainty, and she couldn’t keep fleeing, not from this. Monday was just around the corner, and Veronica needed this smoothed over as quickly and efficiently as possible. Besides, the thought of superheroes turning up to talk to her parents was absolutely ghastly.

Mrs. Chandler’s expression had tightened a little bit. “Heather's stable. She hasn’t woken up yet, but they say she will soon.”

“I’m sorry. I…” Veronica was struck by the sudden desire to tell the truth, the whole truth. Okay, the drain cleaner was overkill, but Mrs. Chandler was a _hero._ The kind of person that beat up violent criminals and saved cats in trees or something. Perhaps that was a little too legendary, but she had to have an inkling of what was really going on. She had to know that Heather was a monster; how could she have missed it?

But no. Veronica had reservations about even Brandish rescuing her from the horrors of high school.

“Heather and I got into a fight last night,” she started. After all, the best lies were rooted in truth. “We were at a party, at Remington. We didn’t leave on a good note, and I guess I wanted to come over and talk it through after we’d both gotten some sleep.”

She looked over at the woman sitting next to her, and was surprised that the only thing she could see on that visage now was exhaustion. The kind of weariness that was creased in the lines next to the mouth and eyes, had made its mark there.

“She was still angry. I—I don’t know, I didn’t know what to say to her. She had barely woken up, so I got her a glass of water, and she started choking—” There was a wave of something icy that prickled over Veronica’s skin as she said it, and she sucked in her breath and squeezed her eyes shut until the numbing tingle of memory had passed. The next words tumbled out, more fragments than coherent statements. “I thought she’d stopped breathing, so I tried to give her CPR, and by the time she was conscious again, she…”

Veronica glanced down reflexively at her hands, the bandaged fingers twitching in her lap. She felt, rather than saw, Mrs. Chandler follow her gaze.

“She hurt you?”

The question was surprisingly devoid of ridicule or incredulity, more telling in its simplicity than anything else.

“Heather was panicking. But she—she shouldn’t have been that _strong._ ”

In the moment they made eye contact, there seemed to be a current of understanding that passed over from the teenager to the heroine. After a beat of silence, Mrs. Chandler's next question was even more blunt than the last. Although Veronica had expected at least a little lift in her tone, there was none.

“What else?”

“She could pick me up—off the ground, she was _flying—_ and then she crashed back down, and hit her head, but I—I tried to stop her, Mrs. Chandler, I’m sorry.”

The woman next to her exhaled a long, slow breath. She lifted one hand and slowly straightened a crease in her pressed khakis, and only then met Veronica's gaze.

“It’s not your fault.”

Veronica hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear those words. A ripple of sweet relief spread through her shoulders, uncoiling the tension there, but it was punctuated by the sharp sting of even more guilt.

It was, most definitely, _her fault._

“I didn’t know what to do, I thought the hospital would be the best place.”

“I’m glad you got her help, Veronica. Thank you.”

The gratitude was even worse, somehow, but Veronica managed to stomach the sticky nausea that was snaking its way up her throat.

“She’ll be okay, right? I mean, you have experience, with…this kind of stuff.”

She really did sound like a child, not that Veronica was in any kind of place to be embarrassed in front of a local celebrity. But it was something to hold onto, other than the dawning truth that if it hadn’t been for the supernatural, she would now have been a _murderer._ And not even a particularly inventive one, at that.

“A little experience, sure.”

When Heather’s mother stood up, there was actually a trace of a smile on her face. Small, and sad, but undeniably there for a moment.

\---

The hanging sword had not yet fallen, she only had a—literal—handful of broken bones, and the sun was still shining brightly when Veronica finally made it home. It had actually been Mrs. Pelham who drove her there. She had found Photon Mom a touch more personable than her sister, although to be fair she wasn’t the one with a kid lying in a hospital bed. The leader of New Wave had very graciously waved away any suggestion on Veronica’s part that she call her parents, which was all for the better because Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer were, in their daughter’s opinion, very unsuited to dealing with a mess of the magnitude she had just made.

The three of them were sitting out on the patio now, overlooking the backyard. A late lunch was just the thing Veronica needed—a return to normality, a reminder of her _actual_ life.

“So how was the hospital, Veronica?”

“It was fine, just dandy.” 

“Terrible choices kids make, at parties,” her mom commented lightly, taking a sip of lemonade. “Was last night any fun for you? Any more contenders for prom?”

Veronica made no effort to correct her mother that Heather ending up in the hospital had no connection at all to their Remington revelry, instead taking a bite of her toasted baguette. “Nope. Unsurprisingly college boys have no interest in actually getting to know you.”

“While you were out last night, apparently our local superheroes saw some action,” her father cut in obliviously, eyes on his phone as he scrolled through a news feed.

“Oh? New Wave, or the Protectorate?”

“The latter, but it didn’t look too exciting. Not that it has anything to do with us.” Her father’s nose crinkled as he looked up at his daughter. “Goddamn, can someone tell me why I read this cape crap?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” Veronica smiled back.

“Oh yeah, that’s it.” Her father grinned at her and immediately turned back to his article.

“Oh, you two.”

“Well, great pâté,” Veronica said, standing up, “but I’ve gotta motor. Lots of homework, you know.”

They waved her off, both of them thoroughly distracted by other things, and soon Veronica found herself back in her room. Her whole body ached, like she’d just been running a marathon and lifting weights. Or been pummeled into a wall by a fucking cape. Her skin felt slightly itchy, too, like a mild allergic reaction.

Veronica flopped onto her bed with a sigh, spreading her arms out on the covers and letting her legs dangle over the side. She should call JD, but the thought wasn’t very comforting. He had no idea what she’d been through; he hadn’t even been in the room. She was just thinking she should talk to somebody, anybody else, when her phone rang.

She rolled herself over and reached for the device on her dresser, pressing the green button that answered the video call. Heather Duke’s face immediately popped into view, and seconds later a large poof of blonde hair filled another window as the third Heather connected.

“Heather and Heather, a pleasant surprise.”

“What took you so long? I’ve been ringing you this whole morning,” Duke pouted.

“Oh, you know, eventful Saturday.”

“Heather won’t pick up either.”

“Yeah, she’s at the hospital,” Veronica sighed as she collapsed back onto her pillows, shifting the screen so it was propped on her stomach. She scratched absently at her elbow.

McNamara’s “What?” was drowned out by Duke’s “What happened?”

The brunette in the green sweater actually looked a little excited next to the other Heather’s concern, but Veronica ignored it, instead making a face at the camera. “Wild morning, Heathers. JD and I dropped by her house—”

“Backup, backup! What about Remington last night? And why were you were with JD?”

McNamara this time, with a raised eyebrow and three quarters of a teasing grin.

“Heather was a little disappointed with my performance. No need to get into it, but I went to see her today, smooth it over. JD and I were just hanging out, okay?”

“Get to the part about Heather,” Duke waved impatiently.

McNamara glared but didn’t push the subject.

“Long story short, she uh…choked on some water and crashed through a coffee table.”

“You’re kidding.”

“That’s fantastic. God, did you shove her or something?”

“No! Jesus Heather, spiteful much? She was just still a little hungover, it was an accident. What are you so excited about anyway? It’s not like anything really happened to her.”

Veronica had already decided that Heather’s powers should be hers to reveal. She was done poking the Chandler for the day—actually, she felt like she’d had her fill for the year. If everything went according to plan, Heather would forget about those powers when she woke up.

Duke looked a little dejected at the news. Veronica couldn’t blame her for, however relieved she was that she wasn’t a felon. McNamara gazed at them both under perfectly plucked, creased eyebrows.

“So, she _is_ okay?”

“She’ll recover, and probably be ready to make a big deal of it Monday,” Veronica mused. “But guess what? I got to meet _both_ supermoms.”

“Oh, that sounds _very_. What were they like? Heather never talks about them.”

“Lady Photon was really nice, she gave me a lift. Brandish was polite but kind of scary. Distant, you know? I can’t ever believe a superhero raised someone like Heather.”

“Sometimes, I think that Heather’s power is just being a bitch,” Duke volunteered very seriously.

Veronica sneered at that. If only she knew. Her arms felt especially itchy now, and as she scratched at it she propped her phone up on her knees.

“Oh, stop it, she isn’t that bad,” McNamara cut in. Ignoring the looks the other girls sent through the phone, she continued, “I guess that means no croquet today?”

“You two can stop by, if you wanna. We could play without Heather for once.”

There was an awkward pause. McNamara studied her nails and picked at a cuticle. Duke was glancing sideways, silent. It hadn’t even been a day since Chandler had nearly skewered her for wanting to play with red. Veronica pursed her lips, tried and failed to find some encouragement to invite them over.

“Or not. It’s okay, I’d be a terrible shot anyways,” she said, holding up her injured hand.

“Shit, did you two get into a catfight?”

“No, it’s just what I get for trying to help Heather,” Veronica sighed. “But you can ask her for details on Monday. Just know this was none of _my_ doing. I’ll see you guys later?”

Duke laughed a little at that.

“Hope they heal soon, Veronica,” McNamara offered as they disconnected the call.

Veronica let her phone tumble back onto the bed. The rest of the Heathers really weren’t so bad, without the third pushing them around. It was the curse of joining the clique; Veronica didn’t really hate _all_ of her friends, just the most vicious one who poisoned the rest. Her arms felt really prickly now, like she’d been covered in ants, but as she looked down there was nothing to see.

Except…there _was_ something there. Something microscopic, perhaps, but she was sure it was there. She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate, and shuddered as soon as she felt it.

Whatever she had done to Heather, the ability wasn’t gone, not at all. If anything, the sense was stronger than ever. She remembered the feeling of Heather’s anatomy in her hands, like holding a life. Every heartbeat, every breath under her influence...under her _control._

There was life all around her now, too. Tiny, invisible specks in the air, on her skin, a microbiome she had never before recognized. She felt the direction of her mind trace over the cells, cast over them crawling over her in multitudes, tiny little specks going about their tasks. Simple, but so well organized. Twines of genetic code, chains of proteins, little floating organelles. Tiny sacs of autonomy were swarming over her.

Very carefully, feeling a touch disgusted but mostly fascination, Veronica let that influence she’d felt before creep out to touch one of the bacterium. She poked and prodded, looking along the surface and through the organism, pinpointing all of her points of manipulation. She could feel the way the molecules were connected, bonded or interacting with each other. Veronica let her consciousness trace over a membrane, the smooth selective surface. And then she ripped it open.

It burst, the life cracking, its little structures tumbling out. Coils of DNA leaked over the membrane as well, onto her skin, and as she felt the bacterium die there was a thrill of almost predatory glee. She had done that. Executed life, un _made_ it.

Veronica wasn’t malicious. Or at least, had never had any inclination to be, before Heather had so generously taken her under wing. Cruelty didn’t come easily to her, even if quiescence had been her primary mode of operation for the past year. Veronica had killed handful of spiders, swatted a few flies, but beyond that she found little joy in harming things that had not harmed her first. Besides, stamping out the life of an ant was just that—thoughtless, unsophisticated, brute force. There was nothing to it.

But this? Her new power—for she couldn’t deny it any more, that this new skill was anything short of parahuman—it was specific, targeted, precise. The brief image of Heather, growing cold and blue on the floor amidst a shower of broken glass, crossed her mind. JD had that kind of influence over her, had taken away a portion of her self control. She didn’t want to think about what she would have done, could now do, if she didn’t reign this in.

She thought of New Wave, then, the heroines she had met so recently. They weren’t perfect examples; Veronica had reservations about the whole team, biased by Heather or not. But they did _good._ They fixed problems, instead of creating them.

She could understand now why the secret identities were such a big deal. She didn’t even want to think how the school would react if they knew what she could do. Could she cure cancer now? Be a doctor tomorrow? Or, maybe, go the opposite way? Mutilate someone, change their physiology?

Murder, with her own hands?

Her fingers gave a dull little throb at that, and Veronica looked down and was hit by a stroke of genius. Yes…something she could fix. With her left hand, she carefully touched a few fingers to the broken digits, and let her power seep forward. She searched for the feeling of life, ready to change it.

Nothing happened.

Frowning, Veronica tried again, but to no avail. She could feel it, sense it just barely, the construction of her knuckles in her hand, was very aware of her heartbeat and the blood thudding through her system. But her power refused to budge. This was some kind of trait, right, or some kind of trend? Something about parahumans not affecting themselves. Well, it made sense. It’s not like Lady Photon got burned by her own lasers.

Damnit.

With a sigh, Veronica grabbed her journal from her desk along with a pen and went rummaging through a drawer for her monocle. Perhaps she hadn’t needed to talk to a person. Perhaps the page would suffice.

She started slow, gripping the pen awkwardly in her left hand.

_Dear Diary,_

_My teen angst bullshit just got superpowers. The real kind, the fucked up parahuman cape kind. You have to believe me, they’re mine and they definitely work. I tried to stop Heather, but she came out of the bargain with her own set of crazy physics-bending bullshit. Of course when we both got powers, I’m stuck being able to heal anything except my own hand, and Heather gets to fly…_


	4. ARC I-4 | Fucking with the Eagles

Heather Chandler stood in the doorway to her room, arms crossed, mouth agape.

Her coffee table had shattered. It hadn't just suffered a crack across the surface or a chipped corner, but had actually decomposed into fucking pieces. White dust littered the carpet. The shards, though, did explain the cuts she had across her chin and neck and hands, where the robe hadn’t covered. The ruined table’s contents and half her desk was a mess, everything from magazines to makeup items strewn across the floor. There was a small dark patch on the floor in the middle of the glass. Maybe she’d left a cup of something there that had spilled, but she couldn’t entirely tell through the mess.

The crowning destruction in her living space was what really caught her eye. Above her desk and a little to the left, several feet above her head, there was a massive crater in the wall. Heather could see tiny bits of drywall coming through underneath the fracturing cracks, and some small particles had even landed on the floor under it.

Heather was willing to admit that she was a slightly messy drunk, but this was unprecedented.

“Fuck,” she muttered as she picked her way across the small war zone, surveying the damage up close. “ _Fuck.”_

Most nights that she couldn’t remember left her with a touch of exhilaration or at least mildly regretful chagrin, but they had never left her this much _cleaning._

“Jesus.”

Heather looked away from the person-sized dent on her wall, cold blue eyes settling on the figure of her mother standing in the doorway. People had remarked multiple times on their similarity, and the evaluation was accurate enough. The woman took care of herself, but Heather still resented it. Well, among other things. There were associations she rather people not form when they looked at her face, in comparison to the heroes on the news.

Carol, realizing that her daughter was not going to fill the silence, took a tentative step in the room. “What happened here, Heather?”

“I…” There should have been a smart retort on the tip of her tongue, but it escaped her. “I have no idea.”

Heather wasn’t bothered by a mess, not really. Walls could be fixed; nicer tables could be purchased. She had half a mind to redo the carpet. Taking care of the fucking state of the place would be a chore, but Heather took a certain pride in her room, and she would see it maintained.

No, what really bothered her was the lack of context. The last thing she could recall was bumbling her way into bed last night, after barely finding her robe in the dark. It was a fuzzy memory, not helped by the buzz of alcohol and the fury she had felt toward Veronica.

Who, supposedly, had paid her a visit this morning.

“Did you talk to her? Veronica? She was at the hospital, right?”

“Briefly.” Her mother paused, as if afraid to say something. Heather despised hesitation, felt her lip curl even as she waited. “She mentioned that you fell, but I’m sure it was bit of a blur for her as well.”

A bit of a blur? What, was Veronica concussed, too? There was something definitively wrong going on there, but she’d interrogate the loser later.

“She didn’t say anything else?”

“You don’t remember anything?” Carol answered with her own question.

Heather just shook her head, the sense of frustration building to a burning peak. She felt lost, a stranger in her own _fucking_ space, unable to depend on her mind, feeling like the hospital had left her more uncomfortable than she had gone in. Why had she been there in the first place? What had they done, while she was out?

There was nothing Heather hated more than not having control.

Her mother must have picked up on her anger, because for once she wasn’t nagging. She was oddly gentle, today, and seemed to believe her daughter for once. They had driven home in complete silence, Heather staring blankly through a window while her parents maintained their lack of communication in the front of the car. It had felt forced, more uncomfortable than usual, because there hadn’t been any pent up anger radiating off of Carol, and Mark had seemed more thoughtful than out of it.

“Could I give you a hand cleaning up?” her mother asked.

Under normal circumstances, Carol was not allowed in the room. Not if she knocked, not if she needed something, not even to bring up important news. This was Heather’s space, and it would stay that way, a room for _normal_ people who didn’t have any goddamn powers.

But Heather glanced at the mess once more, getting a sudden rush of cold dread as she looked at the glass, an echo of something from earlier—but she couldn’t quite touch it. The details were beyond her reach, something she had misplaced without any idea of what it _was._

Fuck damnit. Without making any eye contact, Heather clenched her fists and very slowly picked up a tube of mascara from the floor.

“Yeah, okay.”

\---

The roar of the vacuum faded in a rumble of noise, and her mother bent and then straightened as she unplugged the appliance. Carol stood there a moment holding the cord, surveying their work.

It was as good as Heather could have hoped. The carpet was really going to be a little hazardous, but most of the table had been cleared away. They’d managed to salvage the things in the glass, mostly books and papers, and also one of the kitchen mugs that had made her strangely uncomfortable. She assumed it had been the receptacle for the water she’d choked on, which was still ridiculous. Just the thought made her face flame. Yet another thing to get out of Veronica tomorrow, although she wasn’t exactly sure how to do that. How mean could she get away with being, when she was sure that the catty slip of a girl had already told the Heathers—and everyone else at Westerberg—that she’d saved Heather's life?

“It’s not that bad. We’ll get someone to fix the wall, but in the mean time you could put a poster up or something.”

Carol had misread her expression for dismay about the room, although the suggestion made Heather’s nose wrinkle more. Posters were so tacky, and disgustingly reverential. There were very few people she wanted on her wall, few that she would hold in higher regard than herself.

“It’s fine. Thanks.”

Her mother smiled a bit. It was probably the longest they had gone without screaming at each other in the past couple months, actually. Heather wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

As if on the same train of thought, Carol wrapped the cord around the designated handle pieces on the vacuum and quickly moved toward the door.

“Well, you probably want to get some rest. Just…let us know if you need anything, alright?”

Heather shrugged. She didn’t need to be babied, but she also didn’t want to ruin the atmosphere. She really wasn’t in the mood for _more_ conflict, at the moment, which was unsettling. Most of the time she was constantly ready to poke holes in other people's lives.

What a fucking weekend.

As soon as her mother had left, Heather took a seat on her bed and pulled out her phone. It was swarmed with texts and calls, mostly from the other girls. It was also nearly out of battery. Heather was just getting up to plug the thing in when she stepped on something sharp.

Cursing loudly and dropping her device, Heather jerked away and realized her heel had come away from a small piece of glass they’d neglected. It really was hard to see in this fucking carpet. Heather sat down hard and pulled her foot up, already pissed that she would have to walk on it, expecting to deal with a bloody gash.

There was nothing there.

“What the fuck?”

Heather spent the next few minutes probing at her own skin, but it seemed she had gotten lucky. There wasn’t a single mark on her foot, even though she had felt the piece poke at her.

But now that she was paying attention, she could feel something else, as well. There was something trailing across her entire body, like a second skin. Strangely ephemeral, and nothing she could see. It felt...like a pair of good leggings. Heather was ready to brush it off when she reached down to pick up the piece of glass and felt the invisible membrane _protect_ her.

The layer bent a little around the inch-long sharp sliver in her fingers, but now she realized how unfamiliar the touch was. There was a physical barrier between her and the air, raised a few millimeters off her skin. Heather inspected the piece of glass, turning it around it her hand. And then her thumb and forefinger met, and the shard was ground into dust.

Heather’s haze of confusion was punctuated by a thrill of surprise and delight. It was followed by clear, clear understanding.

\---

Carol nearly dropped the remote as a loud bang shook the house and made the windows rattle in their frames. She was on her feet before she’d even registered the source of the noise, one hand wreathed in a bright yellow-orange glow.

It winked out as soon as she turned around and saw her daughter flying down the stairs. _Actually_ flying, like Sarah did. Arms spread, her hair trailing behind her, floating effortlessly feet from the ground.

“Surprise, Mom!”

“Heather—you—ohmygod, wait—”

Her daughter just let out a little laugh, her face turning into a sneer that was all too familiar.

“Aren’t you proud, mother dear? _I finally got them.”_


	5. ARC I-5 | Learning to Fly

Carol choked down her words, mouth dry as a desert. She felt footsteps behind her and Mark’s hand fell on her shoulder, squeezing tightly. They both stared, facing their floating daughter head-on as the smile fell from Heather's face and contorted into something else entirely.

“You’re not surprised.”

“Heather, please, can you just sit down—”

“Did you fucking _know?_ Did it happen this morning, is that why everyone was a mute fucking dormouse on the way home?”

“I didn’t know,” Carol repeated, tone steely calm even though she felt like trembling. Heather was a force on her own, she knew that, knew that she had raised a strong girl. Her child, who felt like a part of her, would not be break in the face of a challenge. But this made the hairs on Carol's arms stand up, woke that part of her that reacted to threats with power. She tamped down the panic, drew a slow breath. “I only suspected. The hospital, the memory loss…”

“And you didn’t think to bring it up?”

“Would you have wanted to hear it from me?”

Carol had prepared for this. Triggering was awful, the kind of wound that only puckered into an ugly scar or festered continuously, not something that ever went away. She hadn’t been able to broach it outright, not when her daughter hadn’t brought it up herself, had seemed entirely devoid of the knowledge. There were probably better solutions, but in the time it had taken Heather to wake up Carol hadn’t thought of any. She couldn’t imagine a worse reaction in the world, than Heather hearing that she had _powers_ from her own mother.

Besides, looking at the glint in her daughter’s eyes now, she knew she had to do anything she could for the other girl who had been so honest with her. Heather was already at odds with Veronica, and Carol had to keep as many people as possible from the temper she was so often on the receiving end of. Powers tended not only to amplify an ability or desperation that forced you to the edge, but also the parts that weren’t so pretty to begin with. She had to protect Heather from this, from any lashing out against the defenseless, the _power_ less, when the abilities were still so new.

Heather slowly lowered about a foot, a little of the hostility going out of her thin frame. “You could have—you should have said something—”

“I’m sorry I didn’t try to inform you, but it was only a hunch, and you’re barely recovered. Please settle down. Let’s talk about this as a family.”

It took several heart-wrenching seconds for Heather to land on the floor, but once she did she deigned to perch on the edge of the couch. Carol found a spot close but not too looming, Mark taking a seat at her side.

“How do you feel?” her husband asked.

It was good, that he start. Heather knew how he struggled, was sometimes disdainful but also occasionally showed the love she felt for her father. Carol's own ability to reach the girl had dwindled to nothing lately, but hopefully Mark could still reach her. If not, Carol didn’t know what else to do.

“I’m fine,” Heather huffed. “Actually, feeling better than ever. Don’t you guys remember this? The fucking _fireworks_ of doing what no one should be able to?”

“There are responsibilities that come with power,” Carol cut in, unable to stop herself. “There are rules, guidelines that the community—”

“Oh, what community? The Protectorate? C’mon, Mom, they can barely handle the crime around here without New Wave. Why doesn’t anyone fucking admit that?”

“Don’t cuss at us.”

The reprimand set a pout to Heather’s face that Carol did not like to see. There was a certain energy there now, years of dejection and inferiority and misbehavior culminating in a terrifying justification. She had tried to shield her daughter from the horror gaining powers, keep the girl from walking the psychological minefield that she and Sarah were still tiptoeing through to this day. It had only occurred to her recently that in attempting to protect the person she loved most in the world, she would drive Heather further into the mire that could allow for a trigger.

“You have flight,” Mark tried valiantly, “a lot like Sarah. Have you noticed anything else?”

Heather crossed her arms. “Why should I tell you?”

“We’re trying to help, Heather. We can help you in navigating the learning curve.”

“Right. I don’t have trouble _using_ my powers, and I doubt Crystal or Eric did either. Or did all of you hold their hands, too?”

“We've helped coach both your cousins, you know this. And...I think it would be good for you to join the team, get some experience while we can watch your back.”

Carol wanted to continue, but she had spoken too soon and was flooded with dread as Heather tipped her head back and literally cackled. She pivoted on the couch, the positioning reminding her exactly of Sarah, how she used her power to sit herself up and lean against the seat at a different angle without ever having to touch it. Then Heather brought her hands together and began to clap slowly.

“God, color me impressed. I thought my parents were a little too young for their brains to rot, but both of you have achieved it in record time. You _really_ think I want to join New Wave?”

“We’re an effective team,” Mark’s soft voice was a little more urgent now, laced with a trace of desperation. “I know there's been some tension between us, but Crystal would love to spend some time with you, and we’ve always welcomed your input, honey.”

“First of all, Crystal is a shriveled excuse of a human being, and she _hates_ me. Second of all, what input? Now that I have powers, I knew I’d finally be worthy to join, but ultimately that’s _my_ choice.”

Carol's anger flared even as Mark's hand reached out to give hers a warning squeeze. “Where were you this morning, then? Heather, being a hero isn’t just beating people up and putting yourself in danger. We talk as a family because we need to, because the decisions we make and the burdens we carry—”

“You’re not a fucking shrink, Mom, let it _go._ You really don’t get it, do you? It wasn’t ever about the powers, it was about the attitude. All of you think you’re so high and mighty, the public identities and the media coverage and the shiny costumes.”

Heather rose in one fluid motion off the couch, and although she wasn’t floating, Carol craned her head to look up. Pink lips curled over perfect white teeth, bared in her direction.

“You’re not heroes, you’re only pretending to be. Prancing in front of the media doesn’t change anything. How can you save the fucking innocents, when Dad can’t even remember to take his pills and you barely talk to your own daughter?”

Heather was gone before Carol could muster the strength to stand, half-gliding as she tore back upstairs.

The door slamming felt like a punch to the gut.

\---

Heather had waited patiently for the rest of the house to fall asleep.

It was too risky, after that blow-up, to chance any kind of outing. Her parents were still keeping a close eye on her, although they had barely talked for the rest of the day. She had bided her time carefully, spending the rest of the day in her room and only coming down for a terse dinner that her mother did not attend. Her dad had tried to bring up the subject again, but she hadn’t even bothered to pretend she was listening.

In one day, Heather had gone from oblivious to confused to floundering, and then shot back up to reassured and comfortably pissy, then to completely ecstatic. It had felt _good,_ vindicating, to finally speak her mind. She hadn’t been able to find the words before, and even when she’d turned around the right combination of insults in her head there had still been a suffocating lack of room in which to speak. Exposing the sheer arrogance of it, the pretension in their little getup, it wouldn’t have carried the same weight when she’d been just a moody teenager. No, Heather had been patient on that count as well, and given her opinion when it had cut the deepest. She had wanted them to know, have just a taste of what it was like to the rest of the population that couldn’t compare to the likes of New Wave. It was a pitiful, their desperate clinging to their own efficacy. Telling them as much had gifted Heather back her own autonomy, some fraction of that control she had almost lost.

But that wasn’t giving herself enough credit. Her mother had alluded to the situations in which powers were gained several times—and besides, Heather had plenty of sources for that kind of information. She had understood on a basic level how bad it must be, but apparently they had blown _that_ all out of proportion, as well.

Heather could lift her entire desk with a couple fingers now if she got it to balance correctly, and propel herself right off the ground. All she had paid for it, in turn, had been some tidying of her room and a trip to the hospital. Whatever had happened this morning, who cared? Why would she _want_ to dredge up the event? As far as Heather was concerned, she had dodged a real bullet.

And now it was time to enjoy the payoff of _years_ withstanding all that fucking condescension. She could have left earlier, had been tempted to, but Heather was sharp enough now to recognize she was playing a different game. Before, the parties and the drugs and the blatant disrespect had been tolerated because Carol had felt bad, guilty even. And now? Heather would be put on a leash if she wasn’t careful. If she went too far, her mother would call Aunt Sarah and then she’d be facing down a team that didn’t trust her with her own powers.

But these abilities _were_ hers, hers and hers alone. Beyond anything else, Heather clung to that. She wasn’t going to sign up for any of their bullshit, the New Wave of pandering. Heather wasn’t going to stoop that low. She had the might now to do as she wanted, and she was going to be the most glamorous cape this city had ever seen.

Heather pushed back her silk covers quietly, creeping to the window and sliding it open in intervals so no one would be disturbed. The house had been still for hours, and as the panel gaped wide she paused to listen but heard nothing.

With a barely contained excitement, Heather climbed up onto the sill and squatted there for a moment, leaning half-out into the night, and then let go.

She only fell for a moment before catching herself. As she shot away from the ground she pushed even harder, bursting into the air and soaring straight up. The forcefield she had just gotten acquainted with flexed over her skin, a flawless clear buffer between her and the rest of the world. The wind felt absolutely delicious as it whipped her curly hair back away from her face, and she thrust her arms forward and spread her fingers, dragging them through the crisp breeze as she came to a hover above the city.

Sherwood really was beautiful from up high. It wasn’t a particularly big city, was barely pushing half a million, but it made a nice view. She couldn’t make out the details as easily in the dark, but the trails of light and blazing points of the skyscrapers were enough. The sea of sparkling metropolis twinkled beneath her, her home, her _hunting grounds._

She swooped down again, gaining speed on the descent, careening a bit wildly and enjoying every moment. Heather was so lost in the sensation that she missed the billboard that came out of nowhere.

It clipped her shoulder, sending her spinning, nearly crashing into a tree as she took a moment to stabilize and confront the offensive advertisement. It was unused, unlit, just a tattered expanse of an old sign on a skeleton of a structure. Feeling heady and irked, Heather drew back and gave it a solid punch.

There was a resounding crack. She flew backwards, momentarily spooked, reeling for a moment in the air before she caught herself again. An entire piece of the panel had a jagged crack in it, the metal framing having bending it bent inward from the force of her blow. She darted forward, lashing out with a kick before driving her knee into the spot she’d already dented. With fascination, she watched as a jagged piece of the board, taller than her, creak and bend outward, and then give a groaning screech as it fell to the ground.

Jesus, but that was satisfying.

Heather laughed, then abandoned the ruined sign and sped back into the inky sky. Oh, this was a _good_ deal. Crystal, that stuck up bitch, might be able to throw a laser or two. But unless she was mistaken, her cousin wasn’t half as strong, and certainly not this _invincible._ As she climbed into the air and then glided over the city, Heather felt her heart float nearly out of her chest. Levitating in the air, she made another pass over downtown, and then let out a full-throated whoop.

When she came up with a name and found a costume, powers were going to look fucking _great_ on her. 


End file.
